January 28

This pigeon could be
a dove but for its
dull asphalt plumage
and oil-slicked neck
either a proud bruise
or thumbprint or defect–

it could never be
Aphrodite’s pet

but its dolent call
still seems somehow
sacred

having traded
sky and olive for
the Underworld
of a parking garage–

level two to be
precise where the pipe
leaks and no one parks
in the Acheron–

it doesn’t judge
just paces the empty
ill-lit spots and says
how they are hollow

the answer
it gets back
is just an echo
it must not know
at least I hope
it doesn’t

if anything
it’s just a soul
without a coin
to buy passage on

and it’s forgotten
how to fly

as down here
where would it
fly to?

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